


Barricade

by Kitexa



Category: Rory O'Shea Was Here (2004), Wanted (2008), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Crossover, Depression, Duchenne muscular Dystrophy, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Mortality, Other, inspired by a dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 02:50:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1882275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitexa/pseuds/Kitexa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired heavily by a dream. A shocking revelation offers Rory a chance to live again. Will it prove to be what he really wants? Or produce unexpected consequence?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barricade

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like this started going in a different direction than it ended up. If it feels disjointed, I'm sorry.

image

He's done the best he can, covering tracks. The first of many steps taken away from his former life. Much of the city and a few places elsewhere knew him-- name, if not appearance, too-- enough to bar him from most facilities. A few because he'd helped them out. Made friends, an almost-family...exercising remaining time to the fullest. _'If I'm gonna die, I want t'be remembered,'_ he'd confided once, in a woman who no longer walked this world (such was his luck, unfortunately.) What he hadn't mentioned was the fear. Fear provokes guilt provokes a burden she didn't deserve-- she or anyone-- and Rory couldn't bare to part in such a state. Stay strong, carry them through, were the words beneath his other mantra: Live it up, leave a mark, show them who you are beneath your frozen body.

It had worked for a while. During that time he almost believed it might be enough. That living for, teaching others, would bring to life that selflessness he so desperately tried to embrace.

Alas, Rory was but human, and like all humans, instinct eventually plowed through. _'I'm no' ready t'go.'_ He confessed to the mirror one night, before they'd come to tuck him in. He's asked as he's lowered if there's something wrong, if there's anything they can do, if they need to call a fucking doctor. _'I'm fine.'_ He snapped, with the usual flair, earning him the silent treatment. _'Joke's on them,'_ he snapped at the ceiling, _'I dinae want th' company.'_ Pity. Every inequality he'd worked so hard against, hardly mattered, now. They're biding time, all of them, until he passes. Another month, two if he's lucky, then goodbye Rory, hello some new cooperative saving grace.

That's what happens, O'Shea, sneers the dark around him, outside your little circle, you're no more than an inconvenience.

It's the first of many nights he falls asleep in tears.

Around this time, word of an uprising overseas gains the interest of foreign media. Rory's never been one to waste time with television but passing through the common room, he can't help still his chair. _'A_ cure,' jabbers a newscaster, scenes of a protest playing in montage under his words, _'a cure for mutation.'_ Whatever stupid hope he held from that first piece withers away, in place a vibrant disgust towards so-called evolution. He's never had the privilege of conversing with mutants, most seem to reside outside of Dublin but their existence burns his blood. Bad enough ordinary folk can't be happy for themselves, now they're weeping over excess gifts like it's some kind of curse. So you can fly, change your shape, breathe underwater or whatever it was they did, so what? You're going to condemn yourself, let others condemn you because can't live life the way you used to?

His eyes roll, scoffing. _'Hush, Rory.'_ scolds a nurse. He shoots her nasty look, continuing on his way. If his arms still bloody woked he'd show those mutants how daft they were. Different didn't mean dead end. Nor was it a handicap, as some clearly believed, if a cure had come into existence. _'They want a handicap, they should live in a fuckin' home.'_ He grumbles to himself, because a person with everything in working order plus one step more clearly needed assistance. Ignorant, the lot of them. A thought he'd carry for another few months, until an unexpected invitation called him to the heart of mutant quarrels: Westchester, New York.

'The very idea!' He'd overheard, when his father brought it up. _'No disrespect, Mr. O'Shea, but you know what's coming. Leaving now will only further complication.'_ Bless the old bugger, his resilience held: _'All the more reason. I promised years ago one trip before 'e went. New York's good a place as any.'_

So it seem, anyway. Arrival to Rory proves a different story. 'Gifted' said the letter, not 'school for self-pitying super-heroes.' If he'd known that, he'd have sent his father alone. _'New York's a big place, son. One day here, then we'll have ourselves a proper exploration.'_ Under his breath, Rory curses, but files into the garden. He's little interest in conversation but glares the few times he makes eye contact.

Save for one fellow seated by the wall. Like the bleach blond, he seems less than thrilled about the ordeal.

More concerning, however: he looks just like Rory. Brown hair-- not everyone has his sense of style- but still uncanny.

He'll learn after the service the man's name is Wesley. He, like the O'Sheas, have been called for family affairs. Because they are, some blue-skinned ape-man named McCoy dictates. He, Wesley, and the mother neither knew they shared. _'Charles never told us he had a family.'_ Explains the mutant, pushing his glasses up his nose, _'I'm not sure he knew until later in the game.'_

There's a woman in the room as well. Older, human, who claims to be their grandmother. _'He didn't.'_ She explains, and Rory fights another eye roll. So inattentive parenting occurred before his mum ran off. _'Why all us, now?'_ Why wait until the bastard died? _'Rory...'_ starts his father, but the woman-- Moira-- answers for him. 

It's enough to drive him from the room. _'Piss off!'_ He growls, when others try to protest, Ten, fifteen years and now he learns he could have afforded in-home care? Stayed with his father until he found a place to call his own? A vile feeling fills his stomach, rolling past his temporary quarters, back towards the garden.

It's McCoy, of all people, who stops him halfway there. _'Keep yer sob story away from me.'_ He spits, but Hank looks far from pitiable. Tired, grieving... caked in sympathy but they're not for himself, he explains, but for Rory. _'Muscular Dystrophy, right, son?'_ The blond bristles, or would, were he able. _'You one a' those mind-readin' types?'_ McCoy chuckles, but denies, revealing instead his grandfather's capabilities, how he found them both, he and Wesley, through a device called Cerebro. How he watched them, those last few years he knew, unwilling to interrupt their lives (which, Rory retorts, is utter bull.) He wishes ha hadn't, as again, Hank's eyes grow sad. _'He never wanted this for you.'_ If looks alone could kill, he'd have himself a body to hide. (Providing, of course, his sort weren't coddled by the law. )

_'Neither did I.'_

Three years have come and gone since then, and though his love for mutants has not grown, he admits, one or two don't hurt to have around. Namely Hank, and the brother he's learned mistook mutation for excellent marksmanship. Not at first, of course-- the fuss his father made the first go 'round, unexpected, but not unusual, looking back now. Suppressing mutation was one thing: regrowing that which spent half his life deteriorating was a risky gamble. Or would be, Rory pointed out, if he weren't already a dead man on wheels. What's a few months ahead of schedule if the test run failed to pass? Better to die with a dream than let his mind join his body down the shitter.

An endeavor well-braved: it works. Slowly at first, not without pain, but with time and training, he's on his feet by the end of the month.

 _'I could kiss ya!'_ He exclaims, to which Hank shakes his head. There's something in his eyes- something he doesn't but will come to understand- that keeps further banter at bay: in the moment, Rory hardly notices, nudging Rory's ribs, flashing his father an 'I told you so' smile. He wonders if this is what invulnerability feels like. He'll have to ask Logan, sometime. Right now, better ride the high before it parks.

He doesn't expect to drop so suddenly. McCoy's promised and delivered his desired cure, but failed to mention the daily dose needed to maintain mobility. _'What's the fuckin' point a' this if it needs ta be maintained??'_ He doesn't need a scientific answer. Don't take it, don't walk, don't function, don't fucking live. Maybe he's been spoiled by self-preserved enthusiasm or a taste of what so many crave but Rory would really rather not die.

He wonders now if he made the right decision. Initial thrill evoked by first steps snowballed into a frightful craving to survive. So he hears. _'You're not the guy I met, Rory.'_ Wesley's told him-- they all told him, initially. _'Charles' grandson, gotta look out for him'_ or whatever it was they told themselves to fill the void left by his death. He wasn't Charles, nor was his brother and it's by that statement he excuses them both from Westchester after a particularly nasty encounter with Ororo. He'd scoured enough serum to cut them all out. Even his father, once he proved to side with the bloody X-men. Rory hadn't changed, hadn't grown addicted -- it wasn't a drug, he needed it to live. They didn't understand, and he was tired of explaining. Only Wesley seemed to get it, so Wesley he kept around.

"Rory?"

Speaking of his brother...

The blond-still blond- sighed, opening his bedroom door. "Aye?"

The older man-- mutant-- frowned, looking to the second floor. "Did you spend all day in your room?"

Rory's already withered expression dropped off his face, shuffling to the top of the staircase. "What's it to ya, what I do in there? 's my room."

Hands went up grocery bags sliding to his elbows. "I know. Just... making sure."

Brow went up. "Makin' sure a' what?"

Wesley's turn to sigh, rubbing his face. "I don't know. Fuck, your dad asked, okay? Wanted to know how long you were planning to continue the uh, cold shoulder."

Correction: Understanding pending. "What d'ya mean 'cold shoulder?' 'e knows why I dinae call." Eyes narrowed: he does, right?

His brother's scowl deepened. "I'm just telling you what he said."

Suspicion remained, scrutiny seeping into the lines in his face. ".. dinae answer if 'e calls again."

"I can't--"

"Do it or find yerself somewhere else ta live."

Silence.

"... I'll do whatever the fuck I want." Wesley snipped, dropping the groceries to the floor. He doesn't stop there, bypassing Rory and muttering something about a shower and will he make himself useful and put away the food. Rory turns, but the door slams before he's a chance to retaliate.

"Fine." Balling fists, he stormed down the staircase, gathering the plastic bags and tossing both into the kitchen. Whatever he wants... whatever I want. His father, his decision, both his business only. 

_He's on your side, Rory, don't forget._

They all were, once.

_Only a matter of time before he changes his mind._


End file.
